The Safe Base, or SB, is busy with activity. The SB is an extended, converted complex of Area 51. A large airfield takes up part of the space, while barracks, tents, and even motorhomes take up another portion. Rows of military ground vehicles take up another section while a lab takes up a smaller one. A hospital takes up a wedge next to the lab.

For two weeks, the remnants of the U.S. military have been cleaning up the Area 51 and Las Vegas area of Wreakers, going out on daily missions to push the Safe Zone farther out and cleanse the area of Wreakers. The soldiers come from all branches and groups of the military. They have taken to calling the Wreakers Will, nicknaming the enemy like in almost every conflict.

But now, President Roth has authorized a new mission with his military advisors including the Joint Chiefs and what remains of his Cabinet. It involves taking civilians and training them in techniques developed in the last two weeks on infiltration Wreaker-infested areas, contacting civilians, arming and training them, to create networks of Wreaker cleansers to speed up the creation of a wider safe zone. The plan also involves securing strategic areas, and rescuing those who don't want to fight to the safe zone to perform other tasks key to the survival of humanity in what was the United States.

It also involves secondary missions like testing to see the effects or radiation from nuclear devices on Wreakers, and finding a cure to the virus.

Part of the groups of civilians chosen for training include Mike, Jason, Mila, AJ, and a recovering Matt.

Matthew, after recovering from grievous injuries, doesn't look the same with large amounts of scar tissue. His muscles have suffered from two weeks of bed rest, and he has only begun a fragile training regimen. He and Jason have been tasked to act as the main military arm of the civilian trained group, along with a few of Matt's Rangers and Jason's Marines.

For now, however, military officers have just begun knocking at the civilian quarters, waiting to be answered so they can give briefings to those selected and try to recruit them into the project.

OOC: Okay I included AJ, Smith, just so if you want you can jump in. Anyone else who wants to join this RP/Wreakers revival message me on MSN or something. For intros, basically just catch up on recovery of the last two weeks and answer the door to the military recruiters.

Something had changed in Mila since the mission to find a cure for Matt, and it wasn’t just pathological. Sure, the mission overall had been deemed a “success,” with the endgoal met and both she and Matt receiving a more appropriate treatment for the infection that had nearly turned them both. But in the end, their companions had given far more than she would have ever asked them to give for her sake alone. Many had been wounded, some seriously. A few had died, more from stray bullets and explosions than the Wreakers themselves.

As a firm, metered knock resonated from the door to Mila’s room, she immediately answered with silence. She didn’t talk much anymore, and rarely left her room, even choosing to eat her meals in there. Some of the residents of the relatively new facility had tried to make small talk, tried to break her out of this funk she seemed to be in. So far nothing worked.

The only people she spoke to were the ones who had been there, the ones who had been through hell with her. Occasionally she checked in with Daniel and Logan, who were still living safely in the cave base which was now much more heavily fortified thanks to the slow retaking of land by the survivors. Overall though, it was just her and York, whom she’d picked up about a week ago. He was her only memory of home now.

The melodic thumping of knuckles on wood echoed once more, and she pulled her pillow over her head with a groan. York, however, wagged his tail eagerly and sniffed at the doorjamb as if he recognized the smell beyond.

Matt's face glowed red from exertion, and his breath came in raggedy pants. He hadn't been outside hiking around in the blistering Nevada heat for a while, and it was wearing on him. Matt slows as he realizes his next house. He is with five others officers, most his rank or higher, approach Mila's barracks door and knock. No response. Matt, in full dress uniform and tan beret, climbs up the three steps and knocks, feeling the pain on his joints that he would have never have felt two weeks ago. "Mila! It's me, Matt!" he shouts. "Come out here, we need to talk!"

The other officers give him a glance at the unorthodox method, but hold onto the hope that it will work. They have a schedule to complete, and Mila is only one of dozens.

Matt can only wonder how she is doing, having been in the hospital with no contacts. He remembers his silly and unprofessional crush on her. He sometimes wondered why he had been so immature. It seemed that it took a near-death experience to bring him back to reality.

He hopes that he hears her over the loud noises of aircraft moving about, and distant gunfire and explosions.

Even through the down of the pillow Matt's voice wafts toward her ears. His voice sounded different, strained almost, but it undoubtedly had something to do with his neck injury. With a sigh, Mila threw the pillow aside and got up from the bed, trudging to the door.

Barely had the door opened at all when a wet canine nose stuck itself through the crack as claws dug at the floor in an attempt to get out. York barked in excitement, clearly intending to give whoever was visiting a face full of slobber, but Mila grabbed his collar from behind. "Move, York..." she muttered as she pushed him aside, a task which took a bit of effort considering the dog's size.

Stepping into the harsh sunlight, Mila shielded her eyes for a moment, unaccustomed to the brightness after so long in her quarters. Despite the heat of the day, a well-worn woolen hat adorned her head, though it covered only one-toned hair unlike that of the hat's previous owner. Mila's eyes, which seemed to be drowned by the dark circles beneath them, wandered over to the group of officers for a moment before looking up at Matt.

He looked like he’d lost a good deal of weight, which wasn’t too surprising given his necessary bed rest, but then again she wasn’t exactly eating enough herself. In just two weeks she’d lost several pounds and most of her appetite, but that was something she’d kept to herself as much as possible. No one needed to know that York ended up getting most of her food.

“You’re looking better,” she said softly, an attempt at staying positive. As she glanced at the scars on Matt’s neck, she bit her tongue to keep from wincing, and quickly shifted her gaze back to his face so that he might not catch her staring. The slight disfigurement of his skin was a very clear reminder of everything she’d been trying to forget, though she’d admittedly not done the best of jobs at it. “So what’s up?”

Matt gave a grin as York’s nose appeared, and saw the dog scrabble to great them in the matter dogs do: with slobber. Mila moved York back and Matt whispered to the main recruiter, a Colonel, “Sir, let me take this one.”

He gave a wry grin at her comment that he’s looking better. He knew what he looked like: a tired soldier who had aged, and with a disfigured body. But his lot was mediocre compared to others. Some were wounded worse and others awaited inevitable death, infected. A whole quarantine hospital had been set up, equipped with drugs to ease infected patients to the next life humanely.

Matt stepped forward and squinted, the harsh sunlight blinding him a bit. “Mila, there’s something I gotta ask you. Can we come in? This is a matter that might take some time. It involves me giving you a lengthy briefing on what you might be getting into.”

"Does it take the entire peanut gallery? These cookie-cutter housing units are kinda tiny on the inside." Mila replied, nodding toward the rest of the uniformed men standing nearby. While she didn't mean to offend them personally, she still had trouble respecting the military itself. Certain lines had been crossed and trusts had been broken between the civvies and the soldiers during the first few days of conflict with "Will." There was still plenty of tension between the two groups, though it was slowly easing up as they had worked together to fortify the area.

The past few weeks had imprinted the vision of Wreakers into Jason’s mind. The pale face, full of rage, the bloodshot eyes; all of this stayed with him. The worst part, he was nowhere near finished. Jason stood in the recreation room; the dog tags of his fallen comrades hung on the wall. He stared at them becoming lost in thought; the number of Marines had shrunk since the attack on Area 51. At times he wondered whether he deserved to survive any more than any of them. After regaining his senses, he moved a strand of hair from his eye. It had grown and no one cared or forced him to crop it short. Jason realized that this piece of freedom was just proof that society had fallen apart.

Jason took his mind off of depressing thoughts, making his way out of the bunker and over to the cabin areas. Tents and barracks were lined up together and Jason could spot Matt and Mila in the distance. He knew they hadn’t seen each other for a while, so he let them be.

Jason had gotten a little closer to Mila in the past weeks, but it was mostly only because she had no reason to avoid him. However, things were still awkward; mostly he only talked with his fellow Marines. They were a tough bunch, and after all the hell they had gone through together, he couldn’t be any closer to them.

Jason pulled out his flask, putting it to his mouth as the warm whiskey poured from within. He knew it was the wrong drink to have in a desert but it was a good coping system. Despite the hot weather, he enjoyed the daytime. Night had not been favoring him as of late. He had relapsed into nightmares, getting worse each night, and Valium was becoming scarce. Fortunately, he had recently gotten a refill, but it was the only refill for the next month or so. Not only that, but alcohol was also becoming limited. Jason knew he would have to take each month a day at a time, and he was in for a rough July.